


He Awoke

by SherKat



Series: After the Exile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Exile, Gen, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 04:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19310695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherKat/pseuds/SherKat
Summary: He awoke. And remembered.





	1. Chapter 1

He awoke to darkness. Not the black of Before. He remembered the black. This wasn’t solid like the black had been.

There were sounds. Electronic beeps. Distant voices. Mechanical sounds. The buzzing of fluorescent lights, _UGH!_

There were scents. Disinfectant. Rubbing alcohol. Stale coffee. Various body odors.

Hospital. _Wonderful._

Remembering the pain of Before, he carefully stretched out his senses to explore his immediate environment. He was lying on his back, on a mattress with scratchy sheets. Covered with another of the same sheets. He slowly concentrated, staying aware of his head. The red pain of Before was gone, replaced by a cushioned throbbing in the background. _Drugged._

Suddenly, he tensed. He was not alone. _Friend or foe?_ His tormentors would not have bothered to hospitalize him, unless the big boss wanted him healed up for a chance at yet another round of torture. There was a voice, suspiciously familiar. Someone he needed to be wary of, but he could not recognize it fully or determine its status as friend or foe. He could not make out the words but recognized the language as English. _English?!?_ It was a trap. He hadn’t spoken English since he got on that God forsaken plane back in England. He kept silent, kept his eyes closed and stayed absolutely still.

Someone grabbed his arm. He yanked it away and tried to turn. More hands, restraining him. _Fight! Escape! Must escape, must GET OUT!_ He used every move he could think of to try to break free, punching and slashing with fists and elbows, kicking and screaming as the enemy kept coming in greater numbers. He was halfway off the bed and looking for the door _[who the hell is the posh git in the 3-piece suit?]_ when he felt the needle enter his arm. _NO! Noooo, noooo,_

_nonononononono…._

            _no…._

  _no…._


	2. Chapter 2

As John exited the clinic, a familiar but rarely seen black car was waiting out front, obviously for him. Sighing, he opened the door and got in. Mycroft Holmes was seated across from him.

“Doctor Watson, you are needed. Desperately.”

“Why, hello, Mycroft, how have you been?” said John, sarcastically, “How’s the country-running these days? It’s been awhile.”

“Doctor, let’s cut to the chase, if you please. My brother is in a very bad way. He needs you.”

John opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted. “Please, hear me out. And then I will ask you to make a choice.” John closed his mouth again and nodded, giving Mycroft his full attention.

Mycroft pulled out a file and handed John a photograph of what looked like a pile of building rubble. “This is what is left of the facility my brother was recovered from. For scale, this area you are looking at covers one square kilometer.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a pretty large facility, and very thoroughly destroyed!”

“Yes,” answered Mycroft, “multiple buildings, all demolished. No survivors reported.”

“No survivors,” repeated John. “Then you got Sherlock out before this happened.”

“No,” answered Mycroft. “He was recovered from that precise location as you see it there.”

“Like this?” exclaimed John. “All blown to bits? But how…”

“Doctor,” interrupted Mycroft, “do you recall from your time in the military that at times special operations were needed where an agent would go so deeply under cover that they were unable to be retracted before the elimination of the enemy?”

John went pale. “A suicide mission? You sent Sherlock on a suicide mission?!?”

“I didn’t send him,” Mycroft bristled, “it was his punishment for the Magnussen fiasco. Either that or lifetime imprisonment, most of it in solitary confinement. Could you imagine what that would do to my brother? His mind would eat itself alive within a week. This way, there was still a slim chance of survival. Which, fortunately, has been the case, at least so far. That is why you are needed, Doctor.”

“Oh, dear God,” mumbled John, running his hand over his face. “I’ve got a newborn baby at home; I can’t just leave right now.”

Mycroft waited for John to look him in the eyes again before speaking. “Doctor, I said I would give you a choice, and I will abide by your decision. I will tell you right now that my brother needs Captain Doctor John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, not the suburbanite general practitioner John Watson. On top of the severe physical trauma, there is most assuredly brain damage along with PTSD. We cannot determine the extent of the brain damage until we can bring him out of heavy sedation. He needs to stay sedated so that the medical staff can treat him physically. He has broken limbs of two members of the medical staff in the one instance he began to wake. The longer he is sedated, the more he slowly deteriorates.

“John, you are the only human being my brother has trusted since our French grandmother was alive. If you can somehow keep him calm enough while awake to determine his mental state, we may be able to make some progress. You would be required to stay with him at the secure medical facility 24/7 until Sherlock recovers enough mentally and emotionally for you to be able to leave him. That could be months, it could be never. I realize this is a lot to take in, but I need your decision.”

John was thinking frantically. Sherlock, trapped in a building that was repeatedly bombed by friendly fire until it was nothing but rubble. Still alive, probably by a thread. Anyone who comes near him with his issues would be considered the enemy and in serious danger of bodily harm. If he survives, would he still be Sherlock Holmes? Physical recovery could take up to a year or more, not even estimating the mental and emotional trauma.

Then there is Rosie. His beautiful little bundle of sunshine. The only good thing that came out of the past disaster of a year of his life. He couldn’t abandon her before she was born, there’s no way he could ever do it now. Not and leave her to be raised alone by … Mary. Or whatever her name really is.

John looked up at Mycroft, frowning. “I have a daughter. I cannot abandon her.”

Mycroft answered, “I understand. What about the child’s mother?”

John looked at him for a long time before replying, “She killed Sherlock in cold blood. She can rot in hell for all I care. If I can keep Rosie away from her somehow, I’ll go to Sherlock with you.”

“Thank you, Captain, all will be arranged.” He tapped on the window of the car to signal the driver, who took off in a different direction. “We’ll head to the medical facility immediately. I will inform Ms Morstan and your employer of the situation, and all will be taken care of.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Mycroft Holmes takes care of things, they are decidedly taken care of. John and Rosie were living in a suite adjacent to Sherlock’s hospital room. There was a full bath, a small kitchenette, and a separate bedroom turned into Rosie’s nursery. Clothes, toiletries, baby things, toys, books, electronics, food, formula, and tea were all provided – all the comforts of home. A full-time nurse stayed with Rosie. Mary was … out of the picture. Where she was, what she was doing, if she was alive – John just didn’t care anymore. Ever since she had shot Sherlock, he had been torturing himself trying to reconcile his feelings about the two of them. While Sherlock was exiled, John had been trying to fit into suburban life with his family, but he was never comfortable with Mary. Her snide little digs at him became more and more frequent, almost constant. He always had to stay on his guard, wondering if she was still going out on ‘jobs’ from her past. Now that she was gone and Sherlock was back, John felt that he could breathe easier again. The marriage had been dissolved as fraudulent, as Mary had used an assumed identity, which also gave Rosie’s custody fully over to John. Done and done. Now he could concentrate on Sherlock and come ‘home’ to his beautiful baby girl.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was slowly being weaned off the heavy sedation. His medical team worked silently around him. If any procedure needed physical contact, that’s when John would step in. Only his touch was tolerated. Anytime John spoke to a member of the team, Sherlock’s head would slowly turn toward his voice.

One day, as John and Mycroft were sitting with Sherlock, reading in their respective chairs, Mycroft stopped and put down his newspaper. “John, I do believe my brother is awake but trying very hard not to show it.” He stood to walk closer and speak to Sherlock, when the atmosphere in the room went decidedly tense. He began speaking slowly in French, hoping that would calm his brother, but instead received an icy stare from half-opened eyes.

The monitors alerted the medical team that their patient was regaining consciousness and they entered the room. Sherlock’s respiration and blood pressure immediately began rising. John held them back and tried to calm Sherlock by speaking to him, and gently put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. He looked at John, looked at his hand on his arm, then up at John again. Mycroft asked, “John, do you know any other language? He may be thinking that the use of English is some sort of trap from his captors. If he doesn’t respond to it, then obviously he’s not a foreign agent.”

John began to speak in Pashto, which he learned while in Afghanistan. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide and he stared at John. He asked him, in Pashto, “Pashto?” John answered, “Yes, I speak Pashto.” Sherlock looked at him, almost as sharply as he would have before, then said, “Safe. You. Safe.” He took John’s hand in his, closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

Mycroft whispered, “Thank you, John.”

 

* * *

 

 

He awoke to light. Subdued light. He kept his eyes closed and reached out with his other senses to study his surroundings.

He was still in hospital. But he was not alone.

He cracked open his eyes just a sliver. There were two men in the room with him, sitting in chairs and reading. One was the fancy-dressed posh git from before. The other … was familiar. He felt … warm. Good. The word ‘home’ came to him. Why would this man be Home?

The other man stood up and started speaking. English again. _Another trap!_ He tensed, waiting to see if he needed to fight his way out of the room. But then, the man started speaking in French. _No-one is aware that I am fluent in French since childhood. Do not respond!_ He glared silently at the man.

Then the warm, good man began to speak. He _knew_ that voice! That was the sweetest voice he had ever heard! This man was Home, this voice was Home, oh, please, please will you take me home, get me away from here and just take me _home?_ Then the man’s hand was on his arm, resting gently. He looked at it, then looked back up at the man. And _then,_ the warm, good man began to speak another language. A language he knew but absolutely did not expect to hear! He asked the man, in the same language, “Pashto?” The man replied, “Yes, I speak Pashto.” His startled eyes took in the man as he tried to read him. All he could see was warmth, goodness, cozy fireplaces, tea, and Home. He said to the man, “Safe. You. Safe.” Then he clasped the man’s hand in his own, closed his eyes and fell back asleep.


End file.
